William Shakespeare Quotes
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Striving to better, oft we mar what’s well.
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The let-alone lies not in your good will.
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To move wild laughter in the throat of death? It cannot be; it is impossible: Mirth cannot move a soul in agony.
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Many dream not to find, neither deserve, and yet are steeped in favors.
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A poor thing, perhaps, but my own.
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They say best men are molded out of faults, And, for the most, become much more the better For being a little bad
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Such is my love, to thee I so belong, That for thy right myself will bear all wrong.
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Ah, what a sign it is of evil life, Where death's approach is seen so terrible!
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If it be a sin to covet honor, I am the most offending soul.
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Preposterous ass, that never read so far to know the cause why music was ordain'd! Was it not to refresh the mind of man, after his studies or his usual pain?
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A great cause of the night is lack of the sun.
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Beauty's a doubtful good, a glass, a flower, Lost, faded, broken, dead within an hour; And beauty, blemish'd once, for ever's lost, In spite of physic, painting, pain, and cost.
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Even through the hollow eyes of death I spy life peering.
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Methought I heard a voice cry 'Sleep no more! Macbeth does murder sleep', the innocent sleep, Sleep that knits up the ravell'd sleeve of care, The death of each day's life, sore labour's bath, Balm of hurt minds, great nature's second course, Chief nourisher in life's feast...
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Vanity keeps persons in favor with themselves who are out of favor with all others.
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How hard it is for women to keep counsel!
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Love comforteth like sunshine after rain, But Lust's effect is tempest after sun; Love's gentle spring doth always fresh remain, Lust's winter comes ere summer half be done; Love surfeits not, Lust like a glutton dies; Love is all truth, Lust full of forged lies.
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Who is it that can tell me who I am?
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Things may serve long, but not serve ever.
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These blessed candles of the night.
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Ne'er ask me what raiment I'll wear, for I have no more doublets than backs, no more stockings than legs, nor no more shoes than feet--nay, sometime more feet than shoes, or such shoes as my toes look through the overleather.
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Rest you fair, good signior; Your worship was the last man in our mouths.
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Come away, come away, Death, And in sad cypress let me be laid; Fly away, fly away, breath, I am slain by a fair cruel maid. My shroud of white stuck all with yew, O prepare it! My part of death no one so true did share it. Not a flower, not a flower sweet, On my black coffin let there be strewn: Not a friend, not a friend greet My poor corpse, where my bones shall be thrown. A thousand thousand sighs to save, lay me O where Sad true lover never find my grave, to weep there!
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Had it pleas'd heaven To try me with affliction * * * I should have found in some place of my soul A drop of patience.